George Gordon Byron

When amatory poets sing their
In liquid lines mellifluously bland,
And pair their rhymes as Venus yokes her doves,
They little think what mischief is in hand;

Nothing so difficult as a
In poesy, unless perhaps the end;
For oftentimes when Pegasus seems
The race, he sprains a wing, and down we tend,

I had a dream, which was not all a dream
The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the
Did wander darkling in the eternal space,
Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth    Swung blind and blackening in the moon­less air;

When Bishop Berkeley said 'there was no matter,'And proved it--'twas no matter what he said:
They say his system 'tis in vain to batter,
Too subtle for the airiest human head;
And yet who can believe it

Oh ye
who teach the ingenuous youth of nations,
Holland,
France,

I
Is thy face like thy mother's, my fair child
Ada
sole daughter of my house and heart

I want a hero: an uncommon want,
When every year and month sends forth a new one,
Till, after cloying the gazettes with cant,
The age discovers he is not the true one;

To Ianthe:
Not in those climes where I have late been straying,
Though Beauty long hath there been matchless deem'd;
Not in those visions to the heart

Dear Doctor,
I have read your play, Which is a good one in its way, Purges the eyes, and moves the bowels, And drenches handkerchief s like towels With tears that, in a flux of grief, Afford hysterical relief To shatter'd nerves and quicken'd...

A spirit passed before me:
I
The face of immortality unveiled-- Deep sleep came down on every eye save mine--And there it stood,--all formless--but divine:
Along my bones the creeping flesh did quake;

I
Come, blue-eyed maid of heaven
-but thou, alas
Didst never yet one mortal song inspire- Goddess of Wisdom

Oh blood and thunder
and oh blood and wounds
These are but vulgar oaths, as you may deem,
Too gentle reader